My brother

It’s not always easy living with someone who has a mild form of autism. It’s even harder when it’s somebody close to you. Like for instance your own brother. The first thing you need to know about us is that we were never close. We always fought or called each others names, but we never became the close brothers we should have been. I’d often see my friends getting along fine with their brothers, even going so far as considering them to be real friends. I never had that. And I never will.

The second thing you need to know is that there was always something off about my brother. It started with little things such as his rather pointless remarks, his forgetfulness, his childish behaviour, but most of all the general way with which he went about his day. He would always shut himself off inside his world that he had created. He would imagine the most amazing and fantastic stories and let himself be completely immersed by them. When I was younger I would let myself get lost in his dream world too, but later on, I guess I outgrew them. He didn’t.

At primary school he was doing really well. He got good grades, had some friends and even a couple of innocent and playful girlfriends. He wasn’t bad looking so he had a way with girls. It all started to change when he arrived in the sixth year of primary school. His behaviour would become erratic and slowly he started to drift off into his imagination more frequently. He began to invent stories and act strangely, but we never dared to think that something was wrong with him. Just being kids, I guess.

In secondary school it started to go downhill. He changed directions a lot because of his dwindling grades. More often my parents would receive remarks made by his teacher that he wasn’t paying enough attention, that he was telling lies. This carried on for three years. When I was in the first year of secondary school, we were seeing a psychologist to help him deal with his fantasies. I hated it, because my defiance to go to those meetings was to them a sign that I was somehow the cause of it all. I was mostly singled out because of my assertive behaviour. At that point I wanted to become a psychologist, so I could do a better job.

My brother changed schools and things got even worse. He was bullied and things spiralled out of control. Meanwhile my parents had him tested. Hearing: good. Sight: good (apart from the fact that he had to wear glasses, same as me). Motor reflexes: good. They couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him.

Because he had been held back two years, we ended up in the same year. We were both in the final year of secondary school. That’s when it all went to hell. I was repeatedly approached by his class mates wanting to know if a story he told was true. They were all lies. My parents got wind of this too and after he failed his exams in December he was forced to leave the school. During the next year and a half his situation completely deteriorated. He became nervous, agitated, angry and sometimes even violent. When I came home from Ghent he always seemed so lost. I wanted to help him about a million times, but we weren’t like that.

In late February the whole thing exploded. He was committed into a psychiatric institution for evaluation. The first three weeks he wasn’t allowed visitors and since I was in Ghent during the week, I missed most of his first few weeks there. But I vividly remember the first time I visited him there. It was heartbreaking.

My heart pounded from the second we got in the car to go see him. I had been in a psychiatric institute before to go see someone else I loved, but it all felt new again. Inside my heart was breaking. I was going to visit my two year older brother, in a mental institution.

When we got up the steps at the entrance I was about ready to fall apart. My Dad lead the way, while I was lagging behind. I wished the hallway would never end and we would just be stuck there, but pretty soon my Dad said it was the second door to the right. There it was. Inside I screamed my lungs out. Outside I appeared together and tried to smile.

The moment he saw me he jumped off the bed and he hugged me. It felt weird. It still does. I was so nervous and hesitant I had to force myself to hug him back and smile at him. I couldn’t help it. We went to the cafeteria to talk where we were surrounded by all those other patients. Their eyes all seemed to have glazed over. Staring. Waiting. Some quietly talking to themselves. It completely freaked me out, but I held it together. I had to.

At around seven thirty, he told us he had signed up for soccer. Apparently, they offered a wide array of sports and entertainment activities there. We went to the gym, where my Mom and Dad entered, but I said I’d stay outside for a minute. Watching my brother play and seeing the other mentally disturbed – by lack of a euphemism – I broke down. I ran for the stairs where I let the sadness flood over me. The tears bubbled up behind my eyes and soon after rolled down my cheeks.

He was my brother. He was turning twenty-one. He should have been in his third year of college or university. He should have had a girlfriend by now, or a boyfriend, I don’t care. He should have been outside of these walls, living his life, enjoying it. Instead, he was in here. There was something wrong with him and I didn’t know what it was. I couldn’t help him. I just couldn’t. Because we were never like that. I never had a brother. He was never my friend. We weren’t close. Yet here he was. Alone. And I couldn’t help him. It wasn’t until that moment that I finally realized how long I had wanted him to be my brother. How much I wanted us to be friends. How much I wanted him to be the godfather to my children. I wanted to tell him I loved him, but I couldn’t. That just wasn’t us.

I cried for fifteen minutes. Whenever I heard a noise I tried to compose myself as quickly as I could, but I knew you could still tell that I had been crying. The visit ended about forty-five minutes later. Our goodbyes were platonic, but I wanted them to be so much more. In the car I sent him a text explaining why I seemed so distant and cold. I wrote all the things I couldn’t say to him. I said I was sorry and that I wanted him to be the brother I always wanted.

At home I was greeted by our dog, but I still couldn’t shake the day off of me. My Dad made a stupid joke and I laughed, briefly. I fell into his arms and the tears started welling up again. In his arms I sobbed until I was ready to let him go, but I knew I never could. I pulled away eventually and retreated to my room. I fell asleep very quickly after that. But he never left my mind.

Now when I see him, I try to be understanding and supportive. But I won’t deny that it’s hard. For the first time in nearly eighteen years I have a brother, a brother with a mental disability. It takes some getting used to.